“According to your notions, do women fare any better in life?” Taswell demanded abruptly.
“Women or men,” said Wilfred; “we’re all in the same boat. The most glorious ones are apt to go under.”
Taswell was evidently lying in wait for this answer. “I deny that!” he said quickly. “I knew a glorious woman: the real thing; like . . . like . . . well, the real thing! She made a mess of her life—so far you’re right; but she didn’t go under. She picked up what there was left, and went on more glorious than ever!”
“I knew a woman like that,” said Wilfred softly; “like a flag in the wind . . . !”
“Yes . . . yes!” murmured Taswell. “That’s fine . . . !”
“And she made a mess of her life, too. What has happened to her I don’t know. She must have gone under in the best sense, I think, though the semblance of her is still flying.”
“I’ve never known any woman,” said Stanny, with the silly-sounding laugh under which men mask their most painful emotions; “except for an hour or two.”
The talk rambled on. They never agreed upon anything; nevertheless they were drawn together.
IV
Into a brilliantly lighted, well-filled saloon on the corner of Seventh avenue and Thirty-fourth street, strolled Joe Kaplan. He was wearing an overcoat of English tweed; a white Angora muffler around his neck; and a fashionable soft hat. Evening dress was suggested beneath. Accustomed to being stared at, his expression was bland; but could not altogether conceal the quality of electric alertness which attracted people’s eyes, without their knowing why. Making his way to the bar, he ordered a drink of whiskey. He looked at nobody, but was visibly holding himself in readiness to be hailed. Like a royal prince, he had to be prepared for encounters in the unlikeliest places. He cultivated the note of bonhomie in public, which encouraged hails. This was sometimes inconvenient; but Joe argued that it was better to be hailed than to be watched unknown to yourself.